


red bull and rooibos

by orphan_account



Category: Olympics RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7719463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Le Clos is a snotty little punk.</p><p>Mike should fix that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red bull and rooibos

Mike's the last person to care about decorum and shit. He has a bong shaped like a dick. He hits it unironically. But there's a time and a place. He can't exactly remember the word sacrosanct but if he could he'd be applying it to the situation. Olympic pool. Olympics. Don't be a jackass.

Le Clos is being a jackass. There are cameras. Dick. Mike's not playing this. He's not going to respond. He puts on a stone face and Le Clos gets up close to him, a chair's distance away, and sticks his tongue out.

Mike's going to kill him.

They get in the pool. Mike's barely trying. It's a fucking semifinal. Who fucking cares. Mike watches the Hungarian give the camera a thumbs-up before he lets himself bob like a shell-shocked cork. That was impressive. Mike'll give him that. The Hungarians are insane this year. He watched Hosszu run away with it. People want to pretend Hosszu's husband gave her the medal but he didn't because the Hungarians are insane. Le Clos stares at him, a long minute, and he's got a smile creeping at the very edge of his mouth.

Mike waits in the locker room, lurking like he was born to do it. People get dressed, or they sling on their warmup gear, or they inch away from the shower because, you know, they've all seen the bacteria levels. That's stupid because ocean water isn't the same as treated municipal water, but everyone's freaking out over Zika and getting murdered and getting murdered by? with? Zika. The atmosphere in the Village is more panicky than Mike's ever known and that's not exactly a calm place at the best of times. Idiots. In any case the locker room clears out but for him. He listens, and yes, there's the squeak of toe on linoleum. Chad has a towel around his waist. He lifts an eyebrow at Mike.

"Fuck are you doing," Mike says. "Fuck was that."

Le Clos shrugs.

Mike's not doing this. Le Clos finds himself against the lockers, the ribs at the top digging into his head. He has gel in his hair, Mike can tell. It survived the pool. Mike's hand on his throat. Le Clos at least isn't stupid enough to grin. He looks at his nails instead.

"What do you want?"

"I'm better than you," Le Clos says.

Oh, that tired fucking thing. Mike digs into his throat and holds. Le Clos' eyes are wide and this time he does smile and it's, Christ, it's the most goddamn annoying thing Mike has seen in years. In decades. "Strike a nerve?"

"That is weak and you know it," Mike says. "It's a hobby. Who gives a shit."

Hobby. Le Clos snorts and Mike has to admit that snort has a point. Hobby means something a lot different when you're so bored of living that you wish you actually could die. There are a lot of hobbyists here, picking up mostly bronzes. The challenge is to hold yourself back just enough so that you don't get found out. Mike watched The Incredibles once when he was high and he identified very strongly with the running kid. Mike's greedy, though, he'll be the first to admit that. Fuck a bronze.

"I like it when you're pissed off," Le Clos says. "Isn't that obvious?"

Mike thinks of Lochte. Lochte was always a dumbass and too brave and he didn't tell Mike to stop when he should have and Mike - Mike's not gonna blame himself but Mike should have been a little more realistic. Olympic bodies are still human. Lochte wandered around dazed for days. It was after the Olympics so he was allowed to take time off. But Le Clos doesn't even have the excuse of novelty that Lochte could run on. He's just being a prick. He wants something. What he wants is obvious. It's been obvious since day one. Mike sneers and grabs the front of hsi towel but he doesn't pull it down. He holds it against Le Clos' skin. Le Clos blinks at him, all innocent. "Are you going to indulge me, Phelps?"

"Get fucked."

"That's the plan, yeah," Le Clos says. He pushes into Mike's hand. Mike's not made of stone; Le Clos, like most swimmers, has a body to make up for his butterface. Mike cops a feel. Le Clos hasn't stopped packing heat. He lets out this charged, half-fake, pornographic moan. His tongue courses against his teeth. The underside of it is pure white.

"Aw, fuck off with that sex bullshit." Mike lets him go, steps back. "Fuck off, you want my dick. You're hungry."

Chad raises and lowers one shoulder.

"It's the Olympics, dumbass. No one's gonna notice if you snipe a spectator."

"Why the bloody hell would I want a spectator?" Le Clos' eyes glint. "They kicked a Dutch gymnast off the team."

"So?"

"Michael," Le Clos purrs. He has that gift, can sing someone into an alley before he tears their lungs out. It works on humans. It ain't working on Mike, except to annoy him. "Michael, Michael, Michael. Live a little. It's the Olympics."

Mike should stake him onto the lockers and leave him there wriggling for the cleaning staff to find. Instead he stays still, with his hand on Le Clos' throat, feeling where his heart doesn't pump. Le Clos smiles, sickly and mean, and tips his head forward. Mike leans in and Le Clos just catches his lips. Just.

"Come on," he whispers. "Let's make a date."

Mike lets go of him and sits on the bench. Le Clos' eyes flicker at the pull on his waistband but then he realizes Mike's putting his boxers on. Le Clos sighs. "Ag, Michael. Boring. Always boring."

"I'm busy."

Le Clos makes a duh face at him. If he curls his face up like that you can see the place on his neck where the scar has mostly disappeared. It took Mike about six hundred for his to go away completely. Le Clos met his end getting off a ship in, like, 1692. Something like that. Mike's not one for history. Le Clos has some time to go before it fades forever.

Mike pulls his shirt on. "It's the Olympics, Le Clos."

"You can call me Chad, Michael," Le Clos says. "We're at that point. Aren't we?"

"It's Phelps, Le Clos. It's Phelps."

Le Clos rolls his eyes and drops his towel. He's been wearing shorts the whole time. Mike watches him leave. Chad Guy Bertrand. Jesus. Most people stick to one name and if they get weird over the centuries then whatever, they can be passed off as throwbacks. No big deal. Le Clos picks names up like a kid collecting stones on the beach. He experiments with being Chad and being Guy and being Bertrand, as if he's deep enough to have separate personalities to go along with him. Chad, who the fuck willingly calls themselves Chad?

Mike goes back to the Village. He stands on the field outside and scrapes his heels on the gravel. The South African team is holed up in the northern quad. He considers.

The Dutch Olympic team doesn't panic til two days later.


End file.
